


Synchronicities

by dixiehellcat



Series: Wordsmith [10]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Journalism, are there coincidences?, pre-Wordsmith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22756633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dixiehellcat/pseuds/dixiehellcat
Summary: Reporter Christine Everhart gets a chance at the big break she's been hoping for, and finds herself swept along by the tides of fortune. A story about the feeling when everything comes together and you wonder if it's all happening for a reason.Adopted fill for Tony Stark Bingo 2020, card 3028, 'Christine Everhart', spring 2020
Relationships: Christine Everhart & Fate
Series: Wordsmith [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1071225
Kudos: 18
Collections: Tony Stark Bingo, Tony Stark Bingo 2020





	Synchronicities

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to Iron Man, compatible with my Wordsmith AU (though it suits canon just as well). Dialogue marked with double colons is text or email, btw.

I sat in my apartment in LA, paying bills and sighing over my stalled journalistic career. I was okay working for Vanity Fair—better than okay; it was a gig most reporters would slit throats for—but it just wasn’t enough. Time and time again, I had begged for assignments with some meat on their bones. Let me write about my loves, science, politics, the _future_. But no, I was pretty and blonde (and Southern, though I went to ridiculous lengths to keep that part of my backstory to myself) so I ended up on the entertainment, living, fluff detail. I felt stifled. Unless I could make a big score, an interview get that would put CHRISTINE EVERHART on the cover of the magazine, I was liable to end up chasing Bigfoots (Bigfeet?) for some tabloid web site, or back in Tennessee with my tail between my legs. After fighting my way through a childhood full of friends and relations who didn’t get my big dreams, winning a scholarship to go up north to study at a university as prestigious as Brown, and moving to California, I was not about to give in. As Eminem so pungently put it, I refused to grow old in Salem’s Lot.

I hopped online to touch base with some contacts and see what I could rustle up, but struck out. With no other ideas, I reached out to an ex with whom I’d stayed on good terms, the BBC’s assistant bureau chief in Kabul, but it was the middle of the night in Afghanistan, so all I could do was leave Simon a message. He had a supernatural gift for turning up leads—that, or some really sketchy contacts. Or maybe both. Both was plausible enough. Either way, I was frustrated. I don’t like stasis. I like to be moving. For the moment, though, forward momentum was not happening. I decided to table it, get offline, and cross-stitch a bit to relax. 

As I started to log off the BBC site, I skimmed the ads down the side of the home page. I’d spent some time in London chasing royal stories, and like an occasional visit to a place you’ve grown fond of, I liked looking at ads for local wares. One ad was different though, a link to a blog that covered military affairs. Between hearing Simon’s war-zone horror stories, and the generally progressive mindset at my alma mater, I had developed a severe allergy to combat; but at the same time, digging around in their mess could yield some interesting nuggets of news, seeds that could be nurtured into a good story. I clicked on the link.

Nothing new jumped out at me, though. The most exciting item was a report of an upcoming gathering of warmongers and their plans to give an award this weekend to, of all people, the odious Anthony Stark of Stark Industries. I suppressed an ick. He was such an asshole. I mean, at least, from what I’d heard through the grapevine, he did seem above board financially in his dealings with the Pentagon: not a war profiteer, in the classic sense of price gouging, but still, the billions he blew in riotous living were made off the blood of indoctrinated young soldiers and innocent civilians.

The convocation was being held in Las Vegas, only a hop from LA. I called Caesar’s Palace, the site listed, and was able to book a room with startling ease for a last-minute request. I noted it down for my Vanity Fair expense account, but decided to wait until I had an official assignment in hand before I sprang for a plane ticket. _Don’t get your hopes up yet, Chrissy_ , I told myself, then emailed my editor Will with my plan. ::Stark’s notorious for his evasive maneuvers with interviewers:: he replied. ::Our stringer in Vegas has tried and got nothing but a hard time. But you may fare better. You’re his type::

::Doesn’t ‘has a pulse’ pretty much cover his type?:: I retorted.

::A point. LOL. You are in luck though—said stringer had an emergency & is out of pocket. So, go for it girl!:: 

I had an old college friend who lived in Vegas, and we had been promising each other for literally years we would get together. If I remembered right, she did a lot of traveling in her job with an airline based there, so the odds weren’t good she’d be there on the dates around the award dinner. When I called, though, I was surprised to learn she had changed jobs and now was a marketing rep at Caesar’s. More than that, she was definitely planning to be in town in the time period in question, and was excited to meet up. “We can hang at my place!” she said. “I may beg you to cook for me—if the wonders you turned out from a hot plate and a coffee pot in the dorm back at Brown were any indication, you can probably work magic in an actual kitchen!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna owe me one,” I teased.

“Sorry, can’t sneak you into the Apogee dinner.”

“I wouldn’t ask that! I’ll call it in sometime. Planning to stake the guy’s limo out, anyway.”

My preparations kicked into high gear, since time was short; but things fell into place with a speed that, to be honest, felt fated. I got the last ticket on the airline I liked best, at the departure time I wanted; ran to the grocery to grab a few snacks to take along, and found my favorites all on sale; and when I called a cab to get to the airport, the driver had the same last name as my college roommate. I’ve never believed in coincidences, but this was ridiculous. I started to think I was really meant to get this interview. _God, let this be the break I need,_ I thought as I waited to board the jet. _Whatever path this is setting me on, whatever lies at its end, and whatever it takes to get there, let it be what I’m meant to be doing._

**Author's Note:**

> When the TSB discord server has a party, one activity is adopting unloved bingo prompts. And when Christine came up on the list, it felt like half the members earburned me. LOL. Of course I was going to adopt her.
> 
> This bit takes place in the spring of 2008. It fits canon just fine, but also works as a set-up to the opening of Wordsmith's book 1, The Placement of Angels. In that context, the favor Chrissy is owed gets called in a few days later, when she asks that friend to pick up her stuff from her hotel room because she flew back to LA with Tony Stark. :) For historical accuracy, she didn't Uber or Lyft to the airport because they didn't exist yet! how freaky is that to contemplate?
> 
> (Maybe she really was fated to get that interview...If you haven't checked that universe out yet, go decide for yourself. https://archiveofourown.org/series/1071225 )


End file.
